


The Start of Something

by apolesen



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: A Stitch in Time - Andrew Robinson, Bittersweet, Conversations, Forgiveness, Guilt, M/M, Post-Canon Cardassia, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 05:19:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17933594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolesen/pseuds/apolesen
Summary: During their walks through the ruined Cardassian capital, Garak tells Parmak about his past, but not this time. Instead, the question why comes up.





	The Start of Something

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is written from the position that Parmak and Garak knew each other before the interrogation. 
> 
> The title is nicked from my favourite song of the same name by the band Voxtrot, my go-to song about old-fashioned sad but hopeful gay couples. 
> 
> TW: Post-canon Cardassia destruction. Brief mention of vomiting and torture (not described). References to deceit within relationship (in the form of pre-canon Garak/Parmak).

When Parmak stepped out of the makeshift buildings that housed the medical centre, it was the first time in two days he had seen sunlight. First a particularly bad dust-storm had hit, making it impossible for anyone to leave. Then they had dealt with the fallout of that dust-storm. Parmak had spent much of the night treating everything from mild coughs to respiratory distress so bad the patient had to be intubated. 

That was only the short-term effects, of course. How the increased pollution would affect people’s health in the long term was still unclear. When he could not sleep, Parmak would frequently think about the issues it might lead to, even if there might be ways of ensuring the phenomenon became rarer. Sometimes, he would jerk awake, going from nervous dreaming to wide-eyed horror at some new thought. Was the increase in vitelline deformities he had noticed due to the Jem’Hadar weapons? What should they do to prevent toxic dust from getting stuck in loose skin during shedding? Were the old state-distributed respirators good enough to protect from the contaminants left behind by the war?

Parmak hated what these storms did, to his patients and to himself, but even the most vile thing has moments of beauty. A cluster of dust particles drifted towards the ground, lit by the sun. Now that the wind had died down, they moved slowly, like small leaves falling from a tree on a calm day. He stopped and watched the way the dust made the sunlight solid in front of him. It meant he did not notice the figure standing ahead of him immediately.

There was not much to distinguish the person from any other Cardassian in what was left of the Union Capital. Not an inch of skin was visible. The respirator hid the face, and thick gloves covered the hands. A shawl had been wrapped and secured around the head. The frame was difficult to make out under the heavy coat. Parmak could not say what it was that made him so sure of the figure’s identity, but he knew who it was even before it raised a hand in greeting and approached. 

‘Good morning, Doctor Parmak.’ 

‘Good morning,’ Parmak said. ‘What are you doing here? I hope you’re not unwell?’ 

Garak shook his head with a chuckle. 

‘No, no. It just happened to be on my way.’ 

Speaking to him was like looking at the dust particles. Parmak worried what his company would do to him, and he knew he was dangerous, but at the same time, when a beam of light illuminated his spirit…

When Garak spoke again, that theatrical tone he usually used was not as pronounced. 

‘Would you join me for a walk, Doctor?’ 

Parmak hesitated. He was tired and he was not sure his joints were up to it, even using his cane, but the invitation tugged at him. 

‘The dust has settled towards Tarlak,’ Garak continued. ‘They say it’ll be safe to take off the respirators. I, for one, would not mind some fresh air.’ 

The part of him that could never relax supplied that it was probably not safe to be outside even with respirators on – just because the dust was on the ground did not make it any less harmful…

But another part of him longed for the feeling of cool air on his face. He did not care if he would be combing the dust out of his hair for an octad. The thought of taking off his respirator and hood and undo his braid was too tempting. 

‘I would like that.’ 

Something made him think Garak smiled. He might have caught a glimpse of his face through the visor, or simply imagined it from previous experience. Whichever it was, he smiled back. 

They started walking. Garak adjusted his step to Parmak’s slower pace. For much of the walk, they did not speak. Parmak racked his brains for something to say, but he was too tired. Instead he let himself relax into the silence. He found it comfortable – maybe even intimate. Usually when they walked, Garak would talk. He would recount stories from his childhood, his schooling, his assignments, his exile. He referred to them as his confessions. When he had first used that word, Parmak had pointed out that he was not admitting to any crime. _Not crimes, perhaps, but sins,_ Garak had said cryptically. He had later made mention of a religion on some Federation planet that believed that recounting your sins would take away your guilt. A strange belief, but Parmak could see how the idea might be comforting. 

What he could not understand was why Garak was telling _him_ these things. He did not take these walks with anyone else. Parmak had sometimes wondered why he believed what he heard. Garak was a liar, Parmak knew better than to believe him – and yet he did. He had never heard him speak like he did during these walks. There was none of his usual certainty or showmanship. Instead, he talked slowly and quietly, choosing his words carefully. Parmak could not see them as lies. Perhaps that made him naïve. He would simply have to accept that risk. 

Today, there were no confessions. When Garak broke the silence, it was with a question.

‘Have you had any news about your family?’ 

‘Not in the last octad,’ Parmak said. ‘But last I heard they were well. Cardassia V was not hit as hard as Prime.’ 

Garak made a gesture, somewhere between a shrug and a nod. 

‘Cardassia V has the saving grace to not have been farmed and mined until all that’s left is dust.’ 

Parmak did not know what to say to that. Usually, Garak controlled himself completely, even when Parmak was convinced he was speaking the truth. Then sometimes, something would seep through the mask and Parmak would catch a glimpse of another side of him. These moments of nihilistic honesty scared him. It was like he spoke his mind despite knowing that someone was listening and would punish him for his words. 

‘Have you thought of going there?’ Garak asked, returning to the topic at hand.

‘Thought of it, yes,’ Parmak said. ‘But I’m needed here. When the situation is less dire, maybe…’ 

They had been walking along the remnants of one of the main roads of the capital. The bombardment had reduced it to the width of a foot-path, but the surface that was left this far was still in good shape. As they drew nearer to Tarlak, cracks and holes were appearing in the road. Parmak picked his way through it slowly, struggling to find a surface plain enough for his cane. He was starting to worry he might lose his balance and fall. Garak gestured towards the treaded-up soil on the side of the road where others had walked before them. Parmak nodded, agreeing. They walked side by side, but when the ground towards the track sloped, Parmak fell behind. Garak stopped to let him catch up. He stretched out his arm to him. Without thinking, Parmak took it. 

As soon as their arms hooked together and Parmak’s hand settled on Garak’s upper arm, he realised what he had done. He had not touched him spontaneously like this since they met again. Even the times he had touched him consciously had not been many. He had treated Garak for cuts and scratches he got from the rescue-work, he had grabbed him once when he had stumbled and almost fallen, and he had checked his pulse a few times. He had not thought he would ever touch him for any other reason, but it had felt so natural to take his arm. He kept his grip on it until they reached the track. There he let go. Garak did not seem to notice his disconcertion. His attention was on the monuments of Tarlak, some still standing, some fallen. Parmak wished he could see his face. What emotion would he have seen there? Admiration? Grief? Guilt? There was no way to tell. 

They turned in among the monuments. By a fallen obelisk, Garak stopped. He took his respirator off and crouched down to look at something. 

‘Look.’ 

Garak pointed. Parmak leaned down and strained his eyes. From under the stone, something green stuck out. 

‘What is that?’ He knew what it looked like, but he did not trust himself to be right. He had not seen anything grow for months.

‘A Rentasian iris, by the looks of it,’ Garak said. ‘Or the beginnings of one.’ He smiled to himself. ‘It must have still been a bulb when…’ He gestured above, unable to find a term to adequately describe what had happened. Parmak had not yet heard a phrase that did not reduce the events. 

Garak pushed himself up. He looked around, perhaps to find something that would help memorise the place. Then they continued. Parmak watched where he put his feet and his cane, in case there were other plants. He wondered what bulbs and seeds might be hidden in the soil. He had assumed they would all be died, and he had wondered how many plant species had gone extinct. Still, if that Rentasian iris had survived, there might be others. 

The pain in his legs interrupted his thoughts. He crossed to an upturned stele and sat down. Garak remained standing a little way away, not looking at him, like he did not want to embarrass him. Parmak took off his respirator and started letting his hair out. 

‘Will you sit down?’ 

Garak looked over, a little surprised. 

‘Of course.’ 

He sat down beside him. As Parmak pulled his fingers through his hair, Garak looked at the inscription on the stele. 

‘Gul Ghator.’ He looked up at Parmak. ‘Have you heard of him?’ 

‘Not that I can recall.’ He edged to the side a little to reveal more of the inscription. ‘Died during the conquest of Bajor.’ 

‘No wonder we don’t remember him, then,’ Garak said. ‘We were children.’ 

There was something in the way he used that word “we”, like they had been children together. 

‘Hopefully he doesn’t mind us using his monument as a bench,’ Parmak said. Garak smiled. He wanted to smile back, but he did not quite dare. Garak looked away. They sat in silence, side by side. Parmak tried to concentrate on feeling of breathing cool, unfiltered air or the remains of the Tarlak memorial garden or the pain in his joints, something - anything - other than the man sitting beside him. 

At first when their paths had crossed again, he had not wanted to have anything to do with him. Garak was a murderer and an oppressor and a liar. He had betrayed him in the worst possible way. The need for answers had finally made him seek him out, and that had led to the walks. Every time they met, Parmak felt he learned something new that was added to the portrait he was assembling in his mind. Today, he had learned nothing but how he himself had felt when Garak had offered him his arm and he had taken it. 

‘Doctor Parmak? Are you quite well?’ 

He looked at him. 

‘Why do you call me that?’ Parmak asked. He had not called him “Kelas”, or even “Parmak”. It was only “Doctor Parmak” or, a few times, “my dear doctor”. 

Garak looked surprised, then concerned. 

‘It doesn’t seem right to call you anything else,’ he said finally. ‘Why do you never call me anything at all?’ 

The observation surprised him. He had assumed Garak had not noticed that he always avoided addressing him. There were no title to go with his surname, it did not feel right to just call him Garak, and his first name was a reminder of what they had once had. It was how he thought of him, but he could not call him that. 

‘I don’t know.’ 

Garak’s eyes moved off him, then back. For the first time since his confession, Parmak met his gaze. 

‘Can I be honest?’ There was something missing in that sentence. He did not know which name he would say before he did. ‘Elim.’ 

Garak nodded solemnly. 

‘Yes.’

Parmak collected himself and made himself not look away. 

‘I don’t know what you want with me.’ 

Garak sighed.  
‘I’m not sure either.’ 

‘Do you want me to absolve you of the things you’ve done? Because I’m not sure I can.’ 

‘I am not asking you to do that,’ Garak said, looking away. ‘I know my own guilt. I do not want absolution. But maybe forgiveness. At some point.’ 

Parmak looked away now too. Forgiving him… He thought of the things he had done: the lies, the deceit, the torture. Then there were the things that he had caused indirectly: the labour camp and the poverty and isolation he had endured after his release.

But it all felt differently than it had. The man he had been in love with all those years ago had not existed, but this man, who sat beside him now, did. He had spent so much time picturing this real Elim Garak, and now when he started revealing himself, he was nothing like he had imagined. He had conjured up the image of a sadist who did the State’s bidding without reflection or guilt, but he could see none of that. Even if Parmak was wrong and Garak had lied to him throughout his confessions, the pain that weighed on him was still real. There was no way anyone could falsify that depth of emotion. 

That he felt bad for what he had done was not any basis for forgiveness. Then again, forgiveness, as he had made clear, was not the same as absolution. It would not change the facts or the need to atone. All it would changed was what was between them both. 

‘Why me?’ Parmak asked. Garak looked at his hands, turning them palm-up and then back, flexing the fingers, inspecting the nails. 

‘I do not know how many people I have hurt,’ he said. ‘Other than “too many”. I feel that, of all of them, I hurt you the most.’ He met his eye. ‘And I did it despite how I felt.’ 

Parmak’s throat ached suddenly. His next inhale threatened to become a sob. He swallowed, trying to stop it. 

‘How you felt,’ he repeated. 

‘I loved you.’ 

If it were not for his unsteady legs and his cane, he would have gotten to his feet and left. Now, the seconds it took to collect enough energy to rise was enough time to change his mind. 

‘It doesn’t change what you did,’ he said through gritted teeth. 

‘I know that.’ The way he said it was almost like his comment about the overexploitation of Cardassia Prime: stated as truth, with no attempt to save face. ‘I do not expect you to forgive me, and I do not know if I deserve to be forgiven. You would be right to curse me every day for the rest of your life. But maybe sometime in the future…’ 

He trailed off. 

In that moment, Parmak hated him. The gall of it, asking to be forgiven when he did not deserve it! But as fast as it came, the feeling disappeared. He could see the things Garak had not been able to say. How do you request something that you both desperately need and know you have no claim to? Is there any way to phrase it that will not sound like a demand? 

Parmak made himself look at him again. When he had first seen him again, he had been frozen with fear and incensed by anger at the same time. He had felt unable to move. Not until Garak had turned away had the paralysis lifted. Afterwards, he had been sick for hours, unable to dismiss the feeling of those eyes watching him. 

Now, he felt none of that hatred. There were many other things – confusion, apprehension, distrust, but among them was also affection. When he had seen him waiting outside the hospital, he had not been frightened but excited. When he had put his arm through Garak’s, he had felt safe, not exposed. 

Perhaps forgiveness was not a conscious act. Speaking the words was, but the emotional progression could not be forced. His first thought had been that he could never forgive him, but maybe the process had already started. He did not know how long it would take, or even if it would reach completion, but he could feel the beginnings of it happening. 

He could not think of anything to say to express any of this. Instead, he reached out and took Garak’s hand. Their fingers intertwined, pressing their palms together. Garak looked at him in surprise. Then his face softened. He did not speak, but the gratitude was visible in his eyes. They stayed like that until the wind picked up: hand in hand, in silence, aware of something growing between them.


End file.
